Black Down Street
by Blue-Inked Frost
Summary: A Moordryd centric romance. Nobody’s born evil, after all. Oneshot, Dark Past. May be AU.


**BLACK DOWN STREET**

**A/N: **Thanks to **The Lightning Flash** for her feedback and input.

It was love at first sight.

He'd first seen her in Down City. His father had taken him on one of his "business trips" there, as they were called; they tended to involve lots of talking to strange people and wandering through dirty streets way down underground. Moordryd had been only four years old when Word had first started taking him, though his father still expected him to stand up straight and not be scared at anything he saw there. His nurse—her name had been Jule, who'd always smelt of dragonberry tea and warmth and had wept a salty tear every time she talked about his poor dead mother—had fussed over him and tried to tell his father that the lower cities were no places for children, but Word Paynn had said coldly that it was about time his son grew up, and he expected him to behave in a manner befitting a Paynn.

Moordryd wasn't scared, most of the time. He decided he liked the darkness; it didn't take long for his eyes to adjust, and he could see lots more interesting things than he ever saw in the Paynn towers in Sun City. There were dragons too, plenty of them, some fierce and some not, and when they growled or talked to Moordryd nobody ran to stop them or him, like they always did back at home whenever he snuck out of his room into the lower levels of the Paynn towers where everything interesting seemed to be going on. Some of the streets were electro-lit, like where all the dragonracing was, and if he could he'd have watched the dragons run up and down the tracks for days without taking his eyes off them once, not even to eat. They were magnificent, Moordryd thought, remembering the word someone had once used about Abandonn, who was huge and dark and scary and always guarded so nobody but Father could ride him. Moordryd decided he liked the black dragons best; they seemed like the smartest, because they always took the easiest routes for things and they didn't pause when others got in the way. They were fast, too, faster than Abandonn usually moved, and ran in the shadows quick as lightning. And black was the best colour, because under the different lights their scales reflected every colour that there was, and they could blend into the darkness in the shadow-race so the other riders couldn't see them until the very last minute when it was too late. Most of the black riders wore an intricate design that looked like an eye with dragon wings on the back of their jackets, and once Moordryd tried to draw it in the dirt with a stick, before his father trod on it, wrenching it out of his hand and snapping it, before sweeping Moordryd onwards with him, the reprimand clear. Later, Moordryd drew the design with black crayon for Jule, though it didn't turn out the way he wanted it to. She'd said _Very nice _the way she always did, and he'd known it didn't mean anything. He'd tried to show his father, but Word Paynn had been too busy for him and motioned him away with a single impatient gesture.

He was seven years old when he first saw her. His father had wanted to talk to a red-haired man in private, and he'd been sent off to wait outside, in the alleyway between two factories. Smoke belched from both sides, released into the air from two big funnels for who knew how high up. Moordryd wondered if they'd be able to see it from Sun City, it seemed so dark and so strong. There was a strong smell in the air, too, of burning metal with a hint of roasted meat to it, and the smell reminded him a bit that he hadn't eaten yet and wouldn't until Father took him home again, but Moordryd decided he wasn't hungry. There were much more interesting things to do, and Father usually took a long time when he was having a private conversation.

The alley was badly lit, but after Moordryd's eyes had got used to the dark he stared around him. Something that looked like a see-saw, big and metallic, was pumping up and down—seventy-two times per minute, Moordryd counted, just like his tutor Myrddin had taught him, glancing up at the huge clock set on one of the factory roofs. There were other strange gadgets too, something that looked like the big kettle Jule used to make her dragonberry tea and a semitransparent trapdoor that looked like it had a lot of interesting things going on under it and a tower of twisted lines of metal pointing upwards which looked like a dragon's head if you tilted your head in just the right direction. There was fencing separating the factory grounds from the street, but it was crumbling and twisted, leaving lots of gaps a young boy like Moordryd could easily fit into. He scrambled between two of the palings, making as little noise as he possibly could. He'd had a lot of practice, hiding from Jule and sneaking extra food from the kitchens and waiting quietly while Father talked, and he was good at being quiet. That was just like Father, who made hardly any sound when he moved even though he wore big long robes that swirled across the floor.

Moordryd saw a gap in the trapdoor, and leaned down to peek in. There was a huge rectangle of metal going up and down, and he pulled his head out just in time before it crushed him. He counted the seconds it took to go down and up—_one two three four five six one two three four five six—_and jumped on it at just the right moment.

He blinked in surprise as it carried him down, a sudden breeze rushing through his hair. He hadn't expected it to be this _fast_; he'd thought that going for rides on Azure had been speedy, but he decided in a quick space of seconds that that was definitely wrong and he should ask Myrddin if he could ride on a faster dragon.

At the bottom, Moordryd could see that the metal was heading down to crush an odd-looking green viscous substance, and beside the vat there was a platform which seemed deserted; He jumped off the metal just as it started to turn upwards, desperately grabbing on to the edge of the platform. His hands hurt from the impact and he thought he'd been cut from some sharp edge, but he knew he couldn't let go and fall. Catching his breath, Moordryd scrabbled for a grip, trying to pull himself up. He eventually managed, and lay on the platform panting.

He didn't want to have to do that while jumping from the platform back onto the metal, and as he watched the metal going back up and down he realised that he wouldn't be able to get up on it in time. Even if he made the jump right off, he still probably wouldn't scramble out the top in time before he was squished flat, and that probably wasn't the sort of death a Paynn would want. It wasn't _glorious_, like Father had said last week when Moordryd had seen a black dragon-rider get crushed in an Elite Class race and had nearly cried in disappointment and shock at the red-black amorphous mass that had suddenly appeared on the ground where a man had been before.

Moordryd decided to follow the platform and try to find his way up to the ground. Hopefully he'd find his way back before Father was finished, and he'd get to see the factory while he was at it.

He kept close to the walls, following the shadows and keeping out of sight as well as he could. He couldn't see any people around and it seemed like it was completely populated by machinery, but Moordryd wanted to be careful. Father had once said that it was important to think of everything.

There was a huge room where there were a lot of people who looked like they were knitting something, Moordryd saw; their hands were moving almost too quickly for him to see, and he stared at the tiny porthole for nearly a minute before he remembered he had to get out of there before Father finished.

He followed the passage upwards, going along a winding dusty stairway, and he thought he was nearing the surface. There were a few more portholes lining the walls—he counted seventeen—but he didn't stop to stay; he didn't want Father to be mad at him. Above him he could see a window leading to the surface he'd left behind, but he was distracted that by something else.

_She'd _been the next thing he saw along that passageway, behind the bars of a cage set into the wall, a chain around one leg, kept there when she wasn't needed to work.

She was about his age, Moordryd decided, quite small, yet still fierce. He had realised that she was regarded by her masters as little more than a slave, though the spirit she showed had been in direct opposition to that.

"Hello," he'd said, but she hadn't replied.

She snapped at him, baring sharp little teeth. She'd been hit too often.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said. "I think you're pretty. My name's Moordryd, by the way, Moordryd Paynn."

She stared at him, frightened eyes wide. He met her glance squarely, and after a while she seemed to decide that he meant her no harm.

"Don't worry—" Moordryd started to say, but then he felt something cold curling around his arm. He looked up to see that his father had taken his arm with an iron-cold grip, the metallic fingers of his right hand curling around him.

"I expect you not to wander off, Moordryd. Do I make myself clear?" His father's voice had been harsh, and Moordryd had cringed. All he had wanted to do was to please Father—the word was always capitalised in his mind, formal and imposing and daunting—and he _hated _it when he did something wrong. Father always gave him that look—of disappointment, of _why can't you be like me when I was your age and do great things and impress everybody_, of _are you really my son and what did I ever do to deserve you—_and Moordryd always resolved to do better next time.

It was nearly a week before Father went down to that part of the city again, and Moordryd decided he wanted to see_ her_ again.

His father didn't seem to be wanting any private audiences as he went around to talk to a lot of different people. It was market-day in Down City, the streets packed with dragons and stallholders and a hundred different criers yelling at people to come and buy, and it seemed like Moordryd's father had business with every one of them. Eventually Moordryd decided to ask to go, carefully timing it to a point when his father didn't seem to be doing anything special.

"Father? Please may I go for a walk?" he said, as politely as he could.

"Do not interrupt, Moordryd," his father said coldly. "Learn patience."

He'd done it wrong, then. Moordryd sighed inwardly, though he didn't want to let his father see him sulking. It'd only make him more mad at him.

His father turned to a fat man who wore a lot of rings, evidently interested in talking with him. The fat man reached down and patted Moordryd on the head with a fleshy hand, and Moordryd shifted in slight disgust.

"Have a sweetie, little man," the fat man said, and pushed something pink and fluffy into Moordryd's hand. Moordryd stared at it. Jule said sweets were very bad for you and his father would never allow it.

"I was under the impression you wished my company, not the boy's," Word said coldly, and the fat man straightened, a worried expression appearing on his face.

"Of course, lord," he said. "And in fact not all of our conversation may be suitable for children. If you'd care to come and join me inside, I can have my wife watch the boy…" He gestured to the space behind his store, lots of red fluffy rugs outlining darkness inside and a small lit brazier next to which an equally fat woman was standing. Moordryd looked up at his father in dismay. He didn't want to go in there.

Word sighed. "Very well. Moordryd, you may wander the markets. I doubt you will come to serious harm, and you may even learn a thing or two. But do throw that candy away; I guarantee you would regret consuming it."

"Yes, Father," Moordryd said, and scuttled off, hearing the fat man say something about first-hand experience of course being good for them and his father's brusque agreement.

He made his way to the alley—it wasn't far off the markets, just down that little street and straight on for a while—as quickly as he could. Moordryd thought he'd give the candy to _her_. She probably didn't get fed much, and of course he couldn't eat it himself because his father would be upset.

Moordryd found the platform easier to navigate this time—_count six, jump back, up the steps, right then up again…_ and found her in the same place as before, behind the bars in the little room.

"Hey," he said. "Want some candy? My father thinks it's bad for you, but you look hungry."

She reached forward and snatched it quickly, completely devouring the sugary stuff. When she was finished, she looked hopefully at Moordryd.

"I don't have anything more to give you," Moordryd said. "I'm sorry. I'll come back again and bring something next time."

She seemed to agree with that, and nodded.

Moordryd kept talking to her in the best oratory voice he could manage, just like Myrddin had told him, telling her about his father and his life up in Sun City, and she listened, reaching out to touch his hand through the bars.

"I'd better go," he said eventually. "I'll come again, all right?"

She grinned—there was no other word to describe it—and Moordryd started to walk out.

"Wait," he said, and pulled off his black jacket, putting it through the bars.

"You might want this if you're cold," he said. "I have plenty of others."

She curled up into it, the movement making her look smaller, as Moordryd hurried to go back to his father.

He caught Word just walking out from the fat man's tent, and tried to disguise the fact that he was breathless. He hoped his father wouldn't notice that he was missing his jacket. He'd much have preferred to face Jule's wrath.

"Excellent timing, Moordryd," his father said. It wasn't often he said that Moordryd had done something well, and Moordryd felt his heart swell inside him.

"I trust we will continue in profitable business," his father continued, now talking to the fat man. "For your sake I hope it will be a long time before we have another of these little talks…"

The fat man twisted his hands together, the rings glinting. "Of course, lord…I am at your service…"

"Good," Word Paynn said, and took Moordryd's shoulder. "Our business for the day is finished," he said.

They travelled in silence, taking a dragon-borne carriage up the winding roads leading back to Sun City.

"What happened to your jacket?" Word said casually, suddenly, and Moordryd started in shock.

"I…I left it somewhere," he said, trying to stop himself from stammering. "I was climbing, trying to watch the dragons—" Moordryd knew his father approved of any interest he showed in dragons, and embroidered that into his lie—"and I dropped it."

"You're far too careless with your possessions," Word said. "You will go without a jacket for the next two weeks, do you understand?"

Moordryd nodded, desperately trying to think of a way he could make it up to his father. "Yes, Father," he said. "I'm sorry."

"_Sorry _means nothing," his father said. "It is a word used by people who wish to make excuses. If you tell me you are sorry, I will expect some means to make amends, Moordryd."

Moordryd didn't quite know what "amends" were, but he nodded anyway. "Yes, Father," he said. "I understand."

They went to the Old City on the next trip, where Moordryd saw all the ancient ruins. It was a lot darker than any of the other cities, and it was cold, too. He tried his hardest to stop shivering so his father wouldn't get angry at him for showing weakness that didn't befit a Paynn. He decided he didn't like this city as much as the others; it was _too _dark, and his eyes didn't adjust properly, and it was freezing and it wasn't much more than a heap of old crumbling stone.

When they finally got back into the carriage to return to Sun City, Moordryd glanced at himself in the glass, and saw his lips were blue and his face was paler than usual. He didn't think that was normal, and he thought he'd moved to somewhere beyond cold.

"Get in the carriage, Moordryd," his father said impatiently. "Don't waste time staring at yourself."

Moordryd tried to move as quickly as he could, but something about his head felt strange and light.

"We are returning to Down City," his father said, once they were settled in the carriage.

He might be able to see _her_, Moordryd thought, but somehow he couldn't muster enthusiasm for anything. He thought he'd never be warm again, and it was hard not to shiver or curl up, but as the carriage climbed he thought everything was getting a little warmer.

After a while, Word started speaking, and Moordryd turned his head to pay as much attention as he could.

"Moodryd. Do you know why I chose your name/" his father said thoughtfully.

Moordryd shook his head. "No, Father," he said.

"It dates from ancient legend," Word continued. "There was once a great dragonempire, and a man called Moordryd was the one who broke it. For this, he was always remembered as a black-hearted villain."

_Black-hearted might not be so bad_, Moordryd thought. He'd heard one of the stableboys use that phrase about one of the black dragon-riders.

"Do you wonder why I chose such a name, Moordryd?"

"Yes, Father," Moordryd said cautiously. He thought that was what his father wanted to hear.

"It is because it is given to some men to achieve greatness…conversely, as it were," Word said. "Someday, you and I may both do business that most will hate…but we will have to, because sometimes these things are necessary. Do you understand?"

Moordryd wasn't quite sure if he understood everything his father was talking about—he thought Father was saying less than he meant, like people did when they thought you weren't really listening—but he nodded anyway. "Yes, Father," he said.

The carriage jerked to a stop, and Moordryd realised they'd arrived. From the length of the trip he could tell they were in Down City, and he was glad. It'd be warmer here.

"Then remember," Word said, and turned, his robes swishing across the ground. Moordryd followed him, still fighting the urge to shiver and feeling strangely dizzy. He thought Father might have been speaking about the cold before; he didn't feel very good, though he knew Father was always right, and so it was necessary, wasn't it?

They walked past the alley that went between the factories, and Moordryd took note of the name: Death Alley. He told himself that he had to remember that, so he could look it up on his city map at home and find _her _next time he could wander off.

Someone had said that death was like going to sleep, though the dragon-rider that he'd seen trampled hadn't been sleeping. Dead people were cold, he'd heard; Jule had talked about his mother being cold in her grave, though he'd never seen where his mother was buried and he didn't think he wanted to feel how cold she was, either. Moordryd was cold, and he wanted to sleep, too. He wondered if this was what death felt like, and if his mother really minded.

His father, who had been talking to a blue-haired woman, grabbed his right arm.

"We're finished here, Moordryd," he said, his voice loud and booming. Moordryd tried to concentrate. He wasn't sure exactly how long they'd been standing there.

"Come on," his father continued, harshly tugging Moordryd by the arm, and Moordryd did his best to follow.

Moordryd never was sure how many steps he managed to take, though he thought he remembered seeing the carriage door, but the next thing he remembered after that was blackness, and Jule fussing over him with hot dragonberry tea.

"It's only a slight fever," he heard his father say, the words seeming to come from a great distance. "He'll recover in the next few days, and I believe he's learned his lesson."

"Lord Paynn…" Jule began.

"Yes?" His voice was cutting and incisive.

"He's only seven," his nurse said. "He can't live like this…"

"I was surviving on the streets at his age," his father said coldly. "I cannot afford a weak son."

_I'll be strong, Father,_ Moordryd promised himself. _I'll be strong like you and I won't get sick or complain, and I'll do what you say…_

He thought he fell asleep then, and dreamed of black dragons.

- -

When he woke, Jule wasn't with him, and eventually he asked Myrddin, who had come in to keep giving him lessons although the doctor had told him that he needed to rest, where she was.

"Your father said she had to leave," the tutor told him, his voice slow and measured. "He thinks you are far too old for a nurse."

Moordryd didn't cry. He didn't think his father would approve.

- -

Once he'd recovered, Moordryd got to go back with his father again.

_She _was waiting for him, in the factory off the corner of Death Alley, right where his map of the city had showed him, and he'd stolen a hunk of spiced meat, done nicely rare like Father always ordered, from the kitchens to give to her.

"I'm sorry it took so long," Moordryd told her, as she quickly devoured the meat. "I was sick."

She still had his jacket; she'd disguised it as an ordinary bit of cloth, ripped and torn, in the corner of her cell. Moordryd was glad she seemed warmer and healthier, and he thought she'd grown a bit too.

"I'm still going on trips with my father," he said. "I know my way better now, and I can find here easily. I'll make sure I come to visit you as often as I can, all right?"

- -

She was good company, Moordryd thought, often; he didn't really know anyone of his own age. The servants' children were scared of him and usually ran away when they saw him—not, his father said, that any of them struck him as useful company—and his father preferred him to spend time with either Myrddin or himself. Or Jule, but that was before. He'd told_ her _about Jule, briefly, and she'd touched his hand in comfort, sitting there in silence.

He thought she liked it when he visited and talked with her. And he'd kept bringing her what he could steal from the kitchens—he'd discovered another secret passage for him to sneak around in, and that was useful—and he thought she was starting to look better, more _filled out_ as he'd heard a stableboy say about a green dragon once He knew her masters weren't kind to her and the others like her. It was a hard life, for most in the Lower Cities.

_Father lived like this, once_, Moordryd thought, _only he got himself out. Why can't I do anything for her? I want to be as good as him…_

"I'm sorry I can't take you anything more," Moordryd said, and then remembered his father saying that you couldn't say sorry unless you could make up for it. "Anyway, thank you for talking to me."

He thought she smiled at that, and Moordryd started telling her about what Myrddin had said about the first City Keyholder Drakkus d'Artagnan, whom he was named after.

- -

The next time Moordryd went out with his father, they went to a part of Down City he didn't know well, and Moodryd gazed around at the dragon-racing that seemed to be a permanent part of the goings-on down there. He thought it was much better than the Elite racing, though most people seemed to think differently, because there was always more action going on and the tracks looked more dangerous. And one of the black dragon-riders always waved back at Moordryd when he cheered him on, but Father had said it was uncouth so he only did it when Word wasn't around.

They didn't stay to watch any dragon-racing this time, and Word took Moordryd down to the stables, which weren't nearly as interesting. The stableboys were always around, and they sometimes said they didn't want Moordryd under their feet and to _bugger off, kid_. Moordryd wasn't sure precisely what that meant, though he'd once said it to Jule when she'd been nagging him to drink all his dragonberry tea, and she'd boxed his ears. Moordryd didn't like to think of Jule, though. He might have cried, and his father wouldn't like that.

There was a dark-haired boy Moordryd's age standing with a group of other children in an alleyway leading off the stables, and Moordryd stared at them as Word swept him past.

His father saw the direction of his stare, and—unusually for him—laughed.

"See what you can observe here, Moordryd," he said. "Someday you will have to do some of these tasks yourself, and I was doing this before I was your age."

"I will, Father!" Moordryd said, drawing himself to his full height, glad that Word hadn't reprimanded him for not paying attention.

"Be waiting here in…oh, shall we say half an hour," Word said, and swept off.

When his father had gone, Moordryd ran over to the group of boys, realising they were gathered around a rather young man, who had a set of mag-gadgets laid out on a table in front of him.

"…And this mag-knife cuts through _anything_," the man said, holding up a glowing blade. "Would anyone care to test it?"

"I have a bit of dragon's toenail," said a curly-haired boy, and held up something long and curved.

The man lashed out with the knife, and the toenail fell on the ground in two neat halves, leaving the boy to stare.

"My father, Connor Penn, gave me a mini mag-staff," said the dark-haired boy Moordryd had noticed before, producing a small staff from somewhere.

The other boys looked at it jealously. Moordryd agreed with the sentiment. He'd asked his father, once, if he could have a mag-staff or a whip or something, but his father had told him sharply that he would have to earn that and he had not done it yet. From the looks of it, this brat hadn't done it yet either.

"I bet you can't cut through this," the boy continued. "My father says you're just a char…chart…charla…"

"I believe the word you're looking for is _charlatan_," Moordryd finished suavely, feeling proud of himself for knowing it. He knew the word from his father, who'd told off someone who'd tried to show him a new way of refining draconium.

The black-haired boy glared at Moordryd. "How did you know that was what I was going to say?" he said pugnaciously.

"It was obvious," Moordryd replied with a shrug.

The dark-haired boy kept glaring. "I was going to say…going to say…clown. Maybe _you're_ a clown. You're wearing black and you've got white hair, you're like the clowns we get around here."

"I am _not _a clown!" Moordryd didn't think he was supposed to like the comparison from the mouth of this rude boy, though he doubted he truly minded. He'd seen clowns once or twice, on the travelling street shows which his father didn't seem to approve of, and he'd wished he could laugh as much as them.

The dark-haired boy clenched his fists, letting go of the smaller red-haired child he'd been holding by the hand. "I know the ancient martial arts of legend. My father taught me. So, you want to fight, clown-boy?"

"My father taught me the fine arts of intrigue," Moordryd said. He wasn't sure what that meant, and technically his father didn't actually _teach _him anything, but he thought that it sounded good.

""You're a Sun City boy, aren't you?" another, older, boy who had green hair said. "Why don't you go home, rich boy? We don't need your kind here."

"Yeah," the dark-haired boy said, a threatening expression on his face. Moordryd backed up a step, in spite of himself. He thought Father might have wanted him to win against the rude boy, but he didn't know ancient martial arts and he didn't want to fight the big green-haired boy as well.

The stallholder decided to defuse the tension, and neatly spun the mag-staff from the dark-haired boy's hand.

"Let's prove it, shall we?" he said, drawing the knife. "Do you still think I'm lying?" he said.

"Go ahead," said the dark-haired boy. "I bet you won't cut through it."

The stallholder swung the knife through the air, and peeled off a neat shaving from the mag-staff before handing it back to the boy, whose eyes looked like blue marbles, large and pale and stupid, Moordryd thought.

"Cuts through anything," the stallholder repeated. "Only twenty drakkals, a bargain! Tell your families, limited time only, I only have ten of these to sell…"

Moordryd thought. With a knife like that, he could probably free _her_. But he didn't have twenty drakkals, and he didn't think Father would give him the money, as he hadn't earned it.

One of the older boys pulled out a money pouch, and started counting out drakkals.

"I'll give you ten for it," he said, "but I can't afford more."

"Only ten? You'll beggar me!" the stallholder replied, and they began negotiating. Moordryd watched, noticing the way the knife's blade glinted enticingly in the sun.

"You shouldn't have called me a clown," he said to the dark-haired boy. "I have my father's hair, and I like black."

"What's it to you?" the dark-haired boy snapped back, still a bit embarrassed that the stallholder had been right after all.

"This," Moordryd said, and punched the dark-haired boy in the face, at the same time tipping the stallholder's table over with a kick.

The dark-haired boy raised a fist to punch back, but Moordryd dodged just in time. The area was now confused, as the stallholder was rushing to recover his spilled stock and the boys were milling around, curious about the fight.

The knife was lying on the ground, just next to Moordryd's foot, and he dodged behind a bigger boy to grab it up and shove it under his shirt.

"Hey!" the dark-haired boy said, running towards Moordryd, fist raised. "Don't run away, coward!"

Before Moordryd could stop him, the dark-haired boy hit him on the cheek, and Moordryd felt the world spinning around him.

He brought his knee up into the other boy's groin, and was rewarded with a cry from him.

"Stop!" the stallholder called, trying to stop the crowd of boys from stepping all over his merchandise. "Stop it at once! I'll tell your parents!"

The dark-haired boy punched Moordryd again, and behind him Moodryd felt the green-haired boy grabbing his arm and twisting it behind his back. He was less concerned about the pain than about the knife he'd hidden in his shirt, and stood still so that it wouldn't be thrown out of his clothing. The fight seemed to die down now the green-haired boy had seized control, and the stallholder glared at the three of them.

"He started it," the dark-haired boy said. He had a black eye and a small cut on his cheek, and Moordryd was glad.

"He did," the green-haired boy confirmed.

The stallholder looked at Moordryd, his expression reminding him of the expression that appeared on his father's face whenever he'd done something wrong.

"Who are you, kid?" he said. "Don't think I've seen you around here. Where are your parents?"

"He's a Sun City brat," the green-haired boy said.

"Moordryd Paynn," Moordryd said. "I don't like Down City brats speaking about me like that."

The stallholder looked shocked. "Not Word Paynn's son?"

Moordryd nodded.

"Let him go," the stallholder said, gesturing to the green-haired boy.

"But he…" the boy began.

"I said, let him go," the stallholder repeated. "His father's on the Council, he practically _owns_ Down City."

Moordryd filed the information about his father into his memory for future reference. He'd probably find it useful later.

The green-haired boy suddenly let go of Moordryd, and he had to quickly grab at the knife in his shirt to keep it there while stopping himself from falling on the ground.

"My regards to your father, young sir," the stallholder said, tugging his forelock and quickly gathering up his things to leave.

"See you later," Moordryd said quickly, and walked away from the boys as fast as he could. He didn't think they were very nice.

"Artha!" someone yelled behind him, and Moordryd turned to see a red-haired man who looked vaguely familiar to him running up the street to the boys. "What happened to you?"

A woman also came running. She had lots of dark hair hanging loosely in tangled curls, Moordryd noticed, and she was quite pretty.

"What happened?" she said, repeating the man's words.

The red-haired man looked at her. "You told me you were watching them, Grainne," he said.

She shrugged, which caused her mass of hair to shudder all the way down her back. "I went to pick up some fuel," she said. "I left Artha to mind Lance…" She continued speaking, the tone of her voice sounding like when someone tried to explain things to Moordryd's father, though there was a querulous note in there as well, and she didn't get cut off halfway like when his father got tired of hearing excuses.

The red-haired man turned away from her, and stared sternly at the boy. "Artha…" he began.

The dark-haired boy looked ashamed, and picked up the small red-haired boy from the ground. "I'm sorry, Father," he said. "I shouldn't have got into a fight. It's just there was this other boy, Moordryd Paynn, and he was rude…"

The red-haired man sighed. "Never mind any of the Paynns," he said, and gathered both boys into his arms. The gesture surprised Moordryd; his own father never did anything like that. "I'm just glad you two are okay."

The woman raised her hands as though she was washing them of the whole affair, and followed the rest of the little family away. Moordryd watched them go. It was so different to his own family, he thought; his father only touched him when Moordryd wasn't following orders on his own, and he didn't have a mother. He'd tried to draw his family, once, looking at the wedding picture where his parents both wore shiny gold and sat on Abandonn together, but when he was finished he hadn't been able to tell the difference between his mother and his father because they both had white hair and grey eyes and pale skin, just like he did. Moordryd always thought he looked more like Father though, because he wanted to, and had ignored Jule whenever she'd said he looked just like his mother, the Dragon rest her soul.

Moordryd touched the knife hidden in his shirt, reassuring himself that it was still there. He'd be able to use this later, and maybe add to his family by one if he could rescue _her_. He'd be like the brave dragonknights in the stories Jule had read to him sometimes, rescuing the helpless and saving the City.

"Dirty little boy," he heard his father say with a sigh. "Can I not trust you on your own?"

Moordryd felt crumpled, like a screwed-up bit of paper that had been drawn on and then scribbled over.

"Never mind," Word continued. "Get dirty if you must, it is how you must learn. Do not allow anyone to treat those wounds; they will serve as a caution in future."

Moordryd touched his face, and realised that it did feel tender from where that boy had hit him. It'd probably bruise, he realised. They'd be badges of honour though, like in the stories, and he'd obey his father _and _rescue her at the same time.

- -

She'd gone. Disappeared from the cage. His old jacket was still in the corner, though.

Moordryd sat and waited, hiding himself in a small alcove, blending into the shadows the way he always did when he was trying to steal something from the kitchens. He thought that maybe she'd been taken out to work again; he'd found her gone once or twice, and had always left something for her for when she came back. He hadn't brought anything this time, though; he'd have a hard enough time getting her out of here and hiding her in the unused cellar he had prepared back at home, where he'd left a bit of food and a spare blanket.

He counted in his head so he could tell how much time he had left; he didn't want to upset his father by being late, and he had a lot to do. He'd chosen a time when he was down here with his father, so that just in case he got caught he could mention being the son of Word Paynn, and he'd chosen a person that his father had spent ages with before, a dark-haired man with strange-looking yellow eyes who'd once invented a new type of black gear but lost his fortune due to _gambling and living in sin_, or so he'd overheard at the Down City Markets where everyone talked about everyone else in loud, clashing voices that filled the area.

Moordryd was just about to give up waiting when he heard the clink of a chain, and saw her being pulled along by a tall man.

"Getting feisty, aren't you, girl?" the man muttered, pulling her along the passageway.

Moordryd decided instantly that _feisty _was a good thing.

He put her back in the cell—she resisted, Moordryd noticed, trying to escape her captor before she was chained up—but in the end he finally slammed the cell door.

"Might use you for meat, girl. You like that?" he muttered, making sure the lock was secure. There was a scratch across his hand, and Moordryd felt suddenly, savagely, glad.

He ambled off, heavy footsteps echoing away, and Moordryd appeared. He pulled out the mag-knife, and inserted it into the lock, trying to fiddle the door open. The lock was old and rusted, he could tell, and it wasn't long before it gave way.

The hinges creaked, though, as Moordryd forced the door open, and he froze briefly, listening just in case someone had heard.

The passageway was silent, and he let out a slight breath of relief as he moved forward.

He'd see if the salesman really _had _been telling the truth.

"Stay still," he whispered to her, and slid the mag-knife across her collar as gently as he could, hoping it'd work.

The steel eventually parted under the mag-knife, and Moordryd felt surprised. He'd never done anything like this before, and carefully tried to control his shaking hand so he wouldn't cut the girl.

When he was finished, the mag-knife's blade had dulled, and Moordryd spared it a brief glance of contempt before hiding it back in his jacket. No wonder the stallholder had offered it for such a relatively cheap price.

"C'mon," he muttered, and helped her out of the cell. It wasn't far away to the exit, but from her point of view in the cage it might well have been thousands of race-lengths.

She blinked at seeing the comparative light that leaked from the door, and Moordryd realised that her eyes wouldn't have been used to the light, like he found it hard to go back to Sun City after a day spent in Down City.

"There's a passage we can use," he whispered, hiding with her in a shadow. "I can take you home, only we'll have to keep you a secret from my father."

- -

Moordryd had discovered the drain that led down from the kitchens by accident, while he had been sneaking around, seeing how far he could get without anyone noticing him. There were a lot of forgotten cellars, too, with long passageways attached to them. They led all the way into Down City, so that waste could be got rid of. That was what most people knew.

Moordryd, on the other hand, knew that they were easily big enough to walk in, and there was a bit of old machinery that carried a large six-sided room up and down in the drain leading from his father's towers. He thought it was part of the ancient technology that had built the city from the ground up and ensured its enduring greatness, as Myrddin liked to say. It hadn't taken him that long to figure out how to work it, and he'd decided it was much easier than walking, so he made sure to occasionally steal a bit of oil to keep it running smoothly.

"Get in there," he whispered to her. They'd taken longer to make it to the drain than he'd expected, running through side streets and trying to avoid being seen, and he hoped he wouldn't be late.

She shook her head, apparently reminded of the cage.

"It's okay." He gave her the most charming smile he could, to try to reassure her. "It'll take you up to the cellar, where you can stay…"

He walked into the room, showing her it was all right, and after a pause she followed him. Moordryd pushed the lever, and the ancient machinery began to crank as it pulled them up. It seemed to take longer than he'd expected, and he was frightened Father would miss him, but he tried to keep smiling to reassure her. He didn't think she'd travelled like this before.

The six-sided room ground to a stop at the top—it seemed to have taken longer than usual; Moordryd wasn't sure if it was just because he was worried, because time always seemed to take longer or shorter if there was something important like a dragon race or anything to do with Father going on, or if it really _had _taken longer—and they found themselves in a cellar, quite large and airy.

"I stole some food from the kitchens," Moordryd said, "and I left a few old blankets in the corner. Nobody but me comes down here. But I have to go now, so can you stay here and be quiet?"

She seemed content with that, going over to ravenously start eating, and Moordryd quickly directed the machinery to take him back to Down City, where hopefully Father would still be in a meeting with the man with the strange eyes.

- -

He was late, badly so, and couldn't find Father anywhere. Eventually he gathered up the courage to ask the yellowed-eyed man where he was, and was told that he thought that Word Paynn had returned to Sun City, and _would he like to try out the wraith-controlling gear young man_?

Moordryd refused the offer as politely as he could, and sprinted back to the drain passage. He'd have to find Father as soon as possible, because the longer he waited the angrier Father would probably get. Hopefully Father hadn't been looking for him—not that he would anyway; Word Paynn's time was far more valuable to waste on one little boy—but if he had then he'd be angrier still than at the wasted effort.

- -

"I have attempted to train you to obedience, boy," his father said, coldly.

Moordryd gulped. He'd barely poked his nose around his father's office door before his father had spotted him, and he'd been sitting with his back to the door too.

"And yet you have failed me," Word continued. "Tell me, what have you been doing?"

Moordryd was silent. He couldn't tell his father about _her_, though at the same time he couldn't think of a lie that would placate that stone-cold expression and voice, his father's unbending visage and towering presence

_He's like…like that man who chained _her, Moordryd thought wildly, _though he's much smarter and more powerful and I _have _to obey him no matter what happens._

"I can't make amends, Father," he said, trying to speak as clearly as he could, suppressing any fear in his voice, remembering some of his father's words from before.

"I realise that," Word said irritably, and stood to tower over him.

"I hired the Dragon Eye street crew to look for you, barely an hour ago," Word said, his implacable voice containing rage just below the surface. "And now I make myself a laughingstock, a hysterical fool combing the streets for a more foolish boy."

Moordryd hung his head.

"I should not trust you to wander the city any more," Word said. "Or I should leave you to whatever dire fate you foolishly wander into."

Moordryd gave a slight nod, hoping he wouldn't anger his father any more, that somehow his father would forgive him.

"I will order you confined to your room for the next fortnight," his father continued, "where Myrddin will attempt to remedy certain of the differences in your formal education. Tell me, can you name the first twelve Keyholders?"

"Drakkus d'Artanagan, Tannis the Rock, Patrik Midas, Alix Stoneface, Amandia…" Moordryd faltered, and Word lifted Moordryd's chin with his right hand, the claws on it digging into Moordryd's skin.

"As I thought. Your theoretical education is as deficient as your practical, Moordryd. I expect better from you."

Word released Moordryd, and returned to his desk.

"Leave," he said. "Get out of my sight."

"Amandia Moonlong," Moordryd muttered under his breath as he ran upstairs to his room, trying to stop himself from crying, listing all the Keyholders he could remember. "Zalik Heartfire, Clio Hexx, Julius Rothbart, Abraham Zeus, Leo Siegfried, Gaia Lucius, Hephaiston Hyrt, Volund Greyshaft…"

_Two weeks would mean he wouldn't be able to look after _her he realised, though that didn't hit him until he had reached his room.

- -

_Father would be upset_, Moordryd realised as he gripped the moonlit windowframe tightly.

Still, it would be the only way, and somehow the idea of disobeying Father and being clever just like him and getting away with it appealed to him.

He climbed nimbly down the walls of the tower, doing his best not to look down. Falling wouldn't be a lot of fun, and he might get spiked on the tips of one of the towers below Paynn Industries. That would be painful, spitting his guts—he knew the formal names for all of them, the _kolon_ and the _secum_ and the _gaster ventriculus_—and leaving him impaled there, but Moordryd decided that he'd rein in his imagination for now.

He scrambled through the kitchen window—it was locked, but he'd been able to open it with the mag-knife, though the blade was blunted and it had been difficult. He'd have to see if he could think up another way in, later. A strand of his hair got attached to the windowframe and fluttered there, its paleness bright in the darkness, but he plucked it off the window and jumped soundlessly to the floor.

Moordryd knew the way to the cellar he'd left her in—he knew all the passages around this top tower; he'd always liked sneaking around here—and quickly made his way through the darkness. This area wasn't guarded; food theft wasn't a big problem for Paynn Industries, though occasionally Moordryd wished that people could recognise his daring feats of theft.

He took the chance to help himself to some food, mostly for _her_, though he tucked a bit of his favourite cheese inside his pocket for later. He probably wouldn't get fed well, while he was still confined in his room.

She was still in the cellar, wrapped in the blankets; she'd managed to eat most of the food he'd left before, and Moordryd congratulated himself on his forethought.

"Hello," he said, and offered her what he'd stolen from the kitchens. "My father got mad." He sighed, and sat next to her, wrapping part of the blankets over himself and snuggling closer to her.

"He said I'd have to stay in my room for the next two weeks. I know it's not as bad as being locked up in a cage, and I can always escape, but I hope I'm able to see you. And I…he's hardly ever pleased with me, not like that red-haired man, though his son got into a fight and was very rude, and I don't know what I need to do…" Moordryd trailed off, and realised that he was very tired. It had been a long day, and he hadn't slept, and it was so warm sitting next to her, and his room felt like a prison that reminded him of his father's rage. "Do you mind if I stay next to you? Just for a while? I don't want to go back just yet."

In answer, she rested her head next to his shoulder, and Moordryd leaned back, closing his eyes. He only planned to stay for a bit, he'd have to get back to his rooms, he couldn't risk Father's rage again….

Moordryd opened his eyes as light lanced across them.

There was a shard of daylight, coming from the one small crack in the cellar, where you could still see some of Sun City.

He stood up quickly, disturbing her, rubbing his eyes. Surely he hadn't managed to fall asleep?

She seemed to catch his mood, and woke too, shedding the blankets and starting to move around nervously.

It _was_ morning, Moordryd realised. Father was going to be very angry.

He heard voices from outside, and looked up in shock. "This one's been tampered with recently…" It was a male voice, but he didn't recognise it. A woman's voice spoke next, and if Moordryd's mind hadn't felt so frozen and stunned, he would have easily recognised it. "…Don't use this one often…boyish prank…have to finish this…"

Before he could prepare himself, the door opened.

The cook, who was standing next to the tallest one of Word's guards, saw them both, and screamed, dropping the pile of plates she was carrying, which left flour and broken china scattered all over the floor, like an accident Moodryd had seen once at the markets, where a dragon had ripped open a fluffy pillow and white feathers had blown everywhere.

He thought it would have been quite amusing if he hadn't been so worried about them both and what his father was going to do to them.

There were more shouts and yells from around him. Moordryd would have scuttled off, but he didn't think he was going to escape this one, and besides he wasn't going to leave _her._

He put a hand on her shoulder, and felt her pulse beating strongly. He could have told her that everything was going to be all right, but Moordryd had his doubts about that.

There was a bit of a crowd gathering around the cellar now, all staring at them—their eyes were like the rude boy's had been, Moordryd thought, wide and amazed—though eventually they cleared away, making room for Moordryd's father to sweep through them, parting like water flowing down each side of a barrier.

His father's expression was far from pleasant—he'd probably been fetched from doing something important, Moordryd thought. He kept hold of her, and decided to face his father's wrath like one of the legendary dragonknights.

"Moordryd, I do not enjoy being summoned in this way to pass judgement on some foolish deception of yours, or to discipline you for your disobedience…" His father paused, and stared at _her_. "Well. You _were _rather intrigued, as I recall. What a clever little thief you appear to be."

Moordryd grinned. He thought Father was surprised _and _impressed at his daring, and he was happy.

"You will have to learn responsibility, son," Word Paynn continued, walking back up the stairs, robes sweeping across the floor, the expression of surprise gone from his face. "It's certainly past time."

He'd called Moordryd _son_. He only did that when he was pleased with him. Moordryd followed him up the stairs, refusing to let his exultation dim.

"You will take responsibility for looking after her, and if she is mistreated or creates trouble for my staff, you will pay. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Father," Moordryd replied, nodding to make his point clear. She was going to stay with him! She was smiling too, he noticed.

His father rang a buzzer on the hallway wall. "Send Cain to me," he commanded the man who appeared, his secretary Parsifal who always shooed Moordryd away whenever he could and called him the Brat Prince whenever he thought Word wasn't around, and a few minutes later a boy not that much older than Moordryd appeared.

"Hey, kid," he'd said. "I'm Cain."

"Moordryd," he replied, and offered the boy his hand just the same way he'd seen Father do it.

Cain gravely returned the handshake, and then looked at her.

"Nice," he said. "So, what're you going to call her?"

Moordryd thought for a moment, considering what Father had recently said to him. There was one word, a big one, that he liked the sound of… "Decepshun," he said firmly.

**A/N:** Feedback is much appreciated. I don't know how faithful I've been to canon, and I'd appreciate any constructive criticism.


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